


Fit To Swallow

by CourierNinetyTwo



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-06-06 01:12:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15183470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CourierNinetyTwo/pseuds/CourierNinetyTwo
Summary: Moira lays low in Australia for a while after getting an invitation she didn't expect.





	Fit To Swallow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Xekstrin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xekstrin/gifts).



> An early birthday gift for Xekstrin!

Moira had come to Australia because of _troubles_ in Oasis.

There were politics involved, yes, but when both Talon and remnants of Blackwatch started circling to make a play, accepting an invitation out of the country seemed prudent. She was still the Minister of Genetics on paper--and a very fine plaque--but needed a place in the meantime to pursue her research unhindered. A blisteringly hot wasteland wouldn't have been her first (or fifth) choice, but its ruler was rich, amoral, and had room to spare.

She liked those traits in most people, but especially women.

It helped that Junkertown was in dire need of a doctor, especially one who knew how to use modern medical facilities. When Moira was given an entire building to work with, and an essentially unlimited budget, she added sunscreen to her list of expenses and set up shop. Within a matter of weeks, she had a serviceable lab, and a considerable flock of volunteers for any biological components that needed testing.

Moira always kept informed consent paperwork somewhere digitally on her person, but as it turned out, most of the Junkers didn't really care if something went wrong; it would just make them the first one to have three arms or angry nanites swimming in their blood. A point of pride, apparently.

The Queen was different. Despite her jagged post-apocalyptic look, there was cunning behind those eyes, a predator among predators. Every scar was a story of victory against impossible odds, and as it turned out, so was her genetic code. Most people exposed to radiation in utero never hit seven feet tall, much less carried enough muscle to wipe out a linebacker. She was lean but imposing, with a deliberate walk that reminded Moira of a lioness.

Having to look up to speak to someone--that was different too. Moira wasn't quite sure how she felt about it yet.

When she called the Queen in for a physical, there were a few things she expected. Reticence, mostly; many leaders avoided being pricked and prodded for examinations, not only out of perceived vulnerability, but knowing the risk that a physician might actually find something wrong. Moira was prepared to answer plenty of questions too, and for the same reasons; interrogating her judgment could give a patient a sense of power if they felt they lacked one.

Instead, the Junker Queen walked into the room, stripped to her skivvies, and hopped up on the table like it was a truck bed. She refused Moira's offer of a robe.

"Have you ever had a physical before?" Moira asked, running a scanner across the Queen's body and watching the biorhythms of heartbeat and blood pressure spike to life on the tablet in her other hand.

"Not that I know of," the Queen answered. Her voice had an odd sort of rasp to it, like an engine's rumble. Moira had thought it was a purposeful affectation at first, but the background noise of it never fell away, even when the other woman's voice boomed across the city. "When you're born here, they check if you're breathing and that's about it."

None of the Queen's vitals came back with any deviations of note, save the ones she came by naturally. While going through the following rote checks, Moira wondered what kind of woman came to rule a place like Junkertown, how the arc of youth mutated into unrestrained power.

However it happened, it had cost the Queen her actual name.

"I'll check your reflexes and we'll be finished up," Moira said, fetching the little hammer she needed to provoke a deep tendon response. Much to her private amusement, it was called the Queen Square.

Named for London, of course. That part Moira would have left out.

"Can you feel in that arm of yours?" The Junker Queen asked, gesturing to the biotic anomaly that climbed dark up to Moira's shoulder, kept under control by implants and injections.

"I can feel more in that arm than I can in this one," Moira replied with a wave of the hammer, "especially if I touch someone. There's a thousand little flickers of life running through all of us, waiting to be snatched away."

The grunt she received in response could have been acknowledgement or dismissal; she honestly couldn't tell which.

She let the hammer swing down and tap the Queen on the knee. Her leg responded with a jolt, but nothing out of the ordinary. The huff of amusement that ruffled the top of Moira's hair, on the other hand--it made her feel small, and in the middle of an examination, that was wholly distracting. She reacted with her first natural defense: an arrogant rebuke.

"This may seem boring or unimportant to you, your _Majesty_ , but kinesthetic symptoms can be a sign of something far more serious." Moira drew the hammer away, then made a note on her tablet.

"I wasn't mocking your expertise," the Queen replied, but her smile was razor-sharp, the sort that cracked ribs to reach viscera.

"Well, then--" She turned to put the hammer away.

One calloused hand caught Moira's shoulder; no, seized it, in a grip like iron. The next thing she felt was the Junker Queen's shadow falling across her, then a hot breath in one ear. "I was imagining giving your reflexes a test."

The fingers of the Queen's other hand drifted up Moira's throat, stroking the delicate skin there. "Like the one right here."

"My _gag_ reflex?" Moira replied, and the second word was a bit more choked than she wanted it to be.

"Uh-huh." The Queen leaned back, releasing Moira's shoulder but giving her cheek a teasing pat. With her strength, it felt almost like a slap. "I have something that will fit there perfect."

Moira didn't blush. She hadn't in twenty or so years, at least, and the sensation was unfamiliar and humiliating in a way that sent a white-hot bolt of heat between her thighs. Her throat tightened; she hesitated, just long enough for the Junker Queen to notice.

"Find me later, doctor." The Queen stepped into her boots and swept up her ragtag collection of clothes under one arm, apparently not caring enough to get dressed right here. "My examinations are a lot more vigorous than yours are."

After so many years of exchanging barbed wits with some of the most brilliant minds the world had to offer, Moira should have had a retort. Instead she watched the flex of muscle down the Junker Queen's back and thighs as she stepped through the door, and made a mental note to track down where her bruise concealer had gotten to.

  
\--  



End file.
